


Discoveries and Deceits

by CassieIngaben



Category: The Professionals (TV 1977)
Genre: M/M, Remix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-09
Updated: 2020-07-09
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:01:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25163584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CassieIngaben/pseuds/CassieIngaben
Summary: When Doyle's drunk, he sings 'Green Grows the Laurel' and ironically pukes all over his herb garden.
Relationships: William Bodie/Murphy, William Bodie/Ray Doyle
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	Discoveries and Deceits

Doyle parked the car in one smooth manoeuvre, and sped out of the car into the busy street. He'd spent the day cooped up in files and he was looking forward to the evening out he and Bodie had planned. Doyle glanced at his watch while he bounced up the stairs: he was early, but surely Bodie wouldn't mind too much. Nor would Murphy, as he was on record saying that this was the most boring stakeout he'd ever done. They'd just wait for Jax and Susan to relieve them and then, they'd be off.

Doyle was about to knock their usual code on the door, when he was stopped short by a moan, somewhat muffled but still audible: somebody was hit! He grabbed his gun, and kicked the door in, yelling "Freeze!"

The picture that greeted Doyle was not what he was expecting, and mesmerised him: Bodie was standing in front of the binoculars tripod, picture perfect image of the CI5 agent on stakeout as per page 26 of the instruction manual — _the designated watcher will take position at the optical observation instrument, standing in front of it, left hand on the instrument_ —except his flies were open, and his cock was being handled by a kneeling, dishevelled Murphy. It was only a second, as both agents were already jumping up, guns raised: but it was burned deeply into Doyle's eyes. For a few moments the three of them stood frozen, guns aimed at each other; then Doyle raised his hands and the tension broke. Without looking at them, Doyle holstered his gun, and before Bodie could finish his "Look, Doyle..." Doyle was out of the room, bounding downstairs as fast as he could.

The room was heavy with silence and the smell of sex, then Murphy cursed loudly: "Damn! Bet he's gone straight to the Cow!"

Bodie, eyes still fixed to the door, moved his head almost imperceptibly. "Nah. Not Doyle." He zipped himself up, and calmly resumed his position at the tripod. He glanced at his watch and chanted the usual formula, forcing his voice through tightly clenched teeth: "observation 5704, eighteen-fifteen hours: nothing to report".

Murphy sighed resignedly, and went for his notebook on the armchair: "5704, eighteen-fifteen hours, logged. Damn!" Silence fell again.

* * *

Bodie walked into the pub, half-hoping Doyle would be there and half-hoping he would not. Doyle's local looked its usual dark and busy self, the crowd of after-work drinkers merrily chatting, drinking and smoking at the bar. Bodie scanned the booths towards the back of the room, and there was Doyle, slouching on the worn green velveteen of his favourite corner, the one with a good view on the exits and the crowds in front. Doyle was hunched over a tall glass, gin and tonic from the looks of it, and scowled into the middle distance.

Bodie slid into the booth, and waved at the waitress. Neither man said anything for a while; the waitress made her way towards Bodie and took his order, pint of lager please, and another of what he's having. At that, Doyle looked up for a second, and then directed his eyes again towards his glass.

"Hello Bodie. How are you? Fine, thanks Doyle, and you?" Bodie said after the waitress got their drinks and he'd tasted his beer.

"You bastard. You never said anything," muttered Doyle.

Bodie snorted. "Yeah, sure. Of course. Hey Doyle, I fuck men. You don't tell me what you are up to between the sheets, do you?"

"I bloody well do—told you all about Claire and the toys, didn't I?"

Bodie laughed mirthlessly. "Come on Doyle, that's bragging, that's different. You don't tell me what _really_ happens, nobody does."

Doyle looked up; his eyes, though already slightly glazed from drinking, were confused, and more than a little hurt. "I thought I knew you."

Bodie swallowed a tart retort. "But you do. I'm Bodie."

"You're one of them."

Bodie lowered his eyes, examining the circular marks left by his glass on the dark tabletop. He whispered "Not… Not only," and his voice was troubled. Then he looked up and smiled broadly at Doyle. "So, how did Cowley take it? Not so surprised, I bet?"

Doyle shook his head. "What?"

"Didn't you tell Cowley? If it bothers you so..."

Doyle stood up and grabbed Bodie by his shirt. "Listen, you berk, who'd you take me for? I'd never shop on a mate—not even on you!"

Bodie held his arms out, signalling peace, and Doyle let him go with an exasperated huff. They sat back and nursed their drinks for a while.

"Since you're buying, I want another double G'n'T" Doyle said, shoving his empty glass towards Bodie.

Bodie made a face, but got up and went to the bar, carrying both empty glasses with him. Doyle drunk was more of a stroppy bastard than Doyle sober, but it seemed that the former was what he'd get just now. Still, getting anything was better than getting nowhere.

* * *

A mournful wailing rent the frosty air of the night. "Ohh Daaaaanny Booooyyy..."

"For God's sake Doyle, shut it! It's cold enough without someone throwing a bucketful of water at us!" Bodie grabbed a squirming Doyle more firmly under his arm, and dragged him towards his flat. One more turn and they'd be home, if they weren't arrested first. Predictably, Doyle had got completely soused, and now was going through his pitifully out of tune repertoire. Bodie gritted his teeth, hoping they'd get home before "Auld Lang Syne", and walked faster.

The gate lock was easy enough despite the almost-dead weight hanging on Bodie's arms. The small garden was providential as Doyle, after a highly ironic few bars of "Green Grows the Laurel", was sick all over his own prized herb garden. Serves him well, thought Bodie, patience wearing thinner by the minute. The worst part was the stairs to the bedroom, as Doyle had an alarming tendency to list sideways to the left, almost pitching him head first onto the dinner table downstairs. They finally got to the bed; after dumping a now-giggling Doyle on it, Bodie started to briskly undress him.

"Yeouw! Y'r hands ... cold! An' ... tickle!" slurred Doyle as Bodie peeled him out of his jeans, to the accompaniment of laughter and squirming.

"Will you be still for a second Doyle! Christ, worse than a child!"

" 'm not a child... You'd like me as a child Bodie? Or is't a man y' like best?" whispered Doyle huskily.

Bodie yanked a jeans leg off with more violence than it was really necessary. "Shut that foul mouth, Doyle. I like silence best."

"Th' strong, silent type... uhmm... can jus' see you, all butch an' all..."

Bodie had had enough. He roughly shoved a partly-undressed Doyle under the cover and shook him to get his full attention: "Look Doyle, if you're coming on to me because teasing turns you on, you're barking up the wrong tree. I don't want all and any men, and sure enough I don't want _you_. Not when you're sober, and especially not now!"

Doyle looked up, befuddled but alarmed at Bodie's tone, and said slowly and softly: "You really don't want me, do you?" Bodie snorted in derision, and Doyle paused, turning his head away; then he swung it slowly back. "If you've always been gay Bodie, why didn't I guess?"

Bodie looked up from folding Doyle's clothes on a chair, and said: "what's this, twenty question? Look, Doyle, I've really had enough of your precious sensitivities for tonight. I've done my duty, I'm going home now. See you tomorrow at work." And he left.

* * *

Bodie walked into the CI5 restroom and went for a cup of sludge of the tea variety. Jax was sprawled on a sofa, reading a girlie magazine; Doyle was sitting on the armchair, looking more than a bit green. Bodie took a particular satisfaction in greeting the room loudly and cheerfully, and watching Doyle cringe. The little bastard was also avoiding his eyes, predictably enough. Bodie parked himself on the other armchair and sipped his tea, humming contentedly. After less than a minute, Doyle got up and left. Bodie smiled.

The afternoon assignment involved lot of driving from witness to witness, gathering mostly useless statements. Bodie drove, never losing patience in even the most snarling traffic, and run the interviews in his most maddeningly suave, gentlemanly way. Doyle took notes and scowled. The only words they exchanged were street addresses.

As they boarded the car to finally report back to HQ, Doyle said mournfully: "My basil is completely ruined. And maybe the parsley too."

"It made my heart bleed, too, seeing how I'd bought most of what you puked."

"You should've stopped me from getting blotto— Ah, forget it. My head hurts."

Suddenly, Bodie's smirking satisfaction deserted him. Enough of games. "Lots of stuff I should've done, according to you, eh?"

Doyle cringed. "Not so loud, will ya?" He sighed and slumped further in his seat. "Ok. Look, now it's where I say I'm sorry and you say you're sorry, and we patch it up... Yes?"

Bodie opened his mouth to wade in with some choice words about how he'd nothing to be sorry about except maybe being careless, when the words sunk in. He stopped, then started again: "You're saying you're sorry? You?"

Doyle snorted, and crossed his arms. His eyes were closed and his head hung back in weariness. Bodie went on driving for a while, trying to gather his thoughts into coherence. Finally he spoke: "Ok. So, no more browbeating? No more..." He trailed off, looking for a word. "You're sure you won't run screaming every time I sit too close?"

Doyle opened his eyes. "All right, I've been a prick. There's no need to rub it in, Bodie. Let's just forget about the whole thing, yes?"

Bodie drove on for a while, struggling to sort out something to say. Then he shrugged, smiled, and said: "Yea. Deal." He drove to HQ like a dangerous maniac, giggling everytime he took a corner on two wheels.

* * *

Murphy opened the CI5 restroom door and stood at the entrance, scrutinising the interiors. Bodie considered him, then stared back at his steaming mug. Murphy eventually walked in, grabbed a chair and turned it so he could face the sofa over where Bodie was hunched. "Where's everyone?" asked Murphy.

Bodie shrugged. "No idea. I just got here; I'm knackered…"

"Where's Doyle?"

"Off for the day, like I should be if I didn't have to wait for Armoury to recalibrate my gun's trigger.

"Ah. It's late, isn't it? They must've all gone home."

"Look Murphy, just say it, yes?" Bodie put his mug down on the floor and stood. Hands in his pockets, he strolled to the window, turning his back to Murphy.

Murphy cleared his throat, examining his hands minutely. "Bodie… I thought about what happened, at the stakeout—"

Bodie cut in: "Nothing happened. Doyle's cool with it; it's settled. And we won't make the same mistake twice."

Murphy fidgeted on his chair, glancing at Bodie's turned back. "Even if that's settled, you're right, we made a mistake, and I've been thinking about it, about the risk…"

Bodie carefully kept staring out of the window. "So you want to stop it."

"I can't lose this job, Bodie. Not like that—just imagine what it would mean!"

"Fine."

"Bodie, look, don't take on so—"

"I said, fine, Murphy. Well, I think my gun must be ready, so I'm picking it up and going home. Good-night, mate." He whirled around and left, closing the door very softly and carefully.

Murphy sighed, closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.

* * *

Bodie hurried back from Armoury, eyes fixed on the closed restroom door—just a few more paces and he'd be past the damn restroom door and on his way home without having to deal with anyone; especially not with Murphy.

The door opened, and Doyle stepped out, a wary expression on his face. He noticed Bodie in the corridor and did a double-take, his surprise plain to see. For a moment, Doyle's eyes darted back to the room; then he carefully closed the door behind him and went towards Bodie.

"Hi mate. Had to come back, the Cow called to say he needed the Wasson op notes now after all. Reckon I should be lucky that was all he needed! Want a ride home?"

Bodie frowned, studying Doyle's expression, then he shrugged as they fell into step automatically. "Yea, why not?"

"Good! Could stop for a pint on our way, I need to drink to my close escape!"

Bodie carefully looked at Doyle out of the corner of his eye; then he smiled and strolled placidly out.

* * *

All was well in Bodie's world—so much so that he even briefly considered breaking into a song—but that would be undignified, though in a way fitting, if one thought back of that other night of song and drinks. Look at how time can heal everything, Bodie thought expansively. Wasn't so long ago, was it, that he'd supported home a drunk and unhappy Doyle, and put him to bed amid much nonsense, songs and ruined herbs. And now, well now they were happy and in tune, celebrating the end of a good job and marking the night before Bodie's departure for the next one. Tough, that: no-one likes a solo undercover op. But of course they couldn't both go, not in Derby at least, Doyle couldn't. Ah, tomorrow's another day, Bodie old son—but tonight it's celebration, seize the day and all that. Enough reflection.

He raised his glass and nudged Doyle from a specular spell of abstraction. "To the day!"

Doyle stopped drawing circles on the table with his glass, and toasted too, mumbling "yea".

Bodie drank up and sighed contentedly. "Well, I'm done for tonight. Still want that ride home?"

Doyle nodded, drinking up in turn, and getting up slowly. "Tired" he mumbled again.

Bodie studied him for a moment; then he slapped him on the back. "Ah, c'mon love, I know you'll miss me, but don't take on so!"

Doyle grimaced and went for the door. Bodie hesitated then followed him, hollering "Oi! Wait for the chauffer, m'lord!"

The car ride was short, and made shorter by Doyle coming out of his mumbling spell and telling a fairly dumb but satisfyingly crude joke. Bodie hummed a few bars of "Green Grows the Laurel", which had become a fairly standard way to make Doyle wince and squirm. Good fun was had by all, until they were off the car and heading inside, as tightwad Doyle had unexpectedly volunteered a stirrup cup.

"Shouldn't that be a steering wheel cup"—asked Bodie idly as they walked in—"or the gearbox cup, or—" he plonked himself on the sofa and grabbed the beer bottle Doyle was handing him, drinking a good pull. "The pedal cup, I think" he finished, drying his mouth with the back of his hand.

Doyle drank too, belched, then sat on the sofa facing Bodie. Bodie looked at him and tzked. "Never you play poker Doyle—hurt your wallet seriously. Come on, cough. You can tell Uncle Bodie."

Doyle bit his lips, swilled the beer in his bottle, and then swore and got up. He turned his back to the room, looking out past the kitchen to the garden, tapping his bottle against the dining table. "I'm resigning tomorrow, Bodie. Telling the Cow first thing in the morning. Thought of not telling you at all, you'd be up in Derby, but that's yellow, and you sussed it anyway."

Bodie gaped. "Wha'?" Then he was up and grabbing Doyle by the arms, faster than he could even think, turning and shaking him. "What? Why?"

Doyle pushed him off half-heartedly "I'm leaving, Bodie. Had enough of this. Need to think, need a change—"

Bodie grabbed Doyle's arms again: "Bollocks! Why?"

"Stop shouting Bodie!" Shouted Doyle, pushing back with more force, and leaning against the kitchen counter. "And why should I explain, anyway—I am leaving: that's enough explanation, isn't it?"

"This is not about the job, isn't it?"

Doyle made a sound that was almost like a laugh. Bodie backed a pace, bumping against the dinner table, and blindly pulling a chair to sit on. He knew he shouldn't really want to find out, and yet he went on. "This is because of me, then. You can't get over it after all," said Bodie, looking at the floor.

Doyle shook his head. "No. Not really."

Bodie clasped his hands together. "Yes. You think I couldn't see it? You've been looking at me, thinking it all over, thinking I'm some sort of leper, looking at me as if under a microscope…"

"No! I said, it's not you. It's not you…" Doyle shuffled his feet, kicking at the counter's skirting board. Then he turned and looked defiantly at Bodie. "It's me. I can't stop thinking about it. I keep seeing it. You and Murphy. Even you and—and others."

Bodie looked up again, uncomprehending. "Well, it is me then. You can't get over it, can't stand it."

Doyle broke the fleeting eye contact, turned and rummaged on the shelves until he found a bottle of whisky. "It's not that I can't stand it. It's the opposite of can't stand it. The opposite, jesusfuckingchrist, don't you understand?"

Bodie felt dimly that his mouth was hanging open, but most of the sensation was coming from a feeling of all his blood being sucked into himself and squeezed dry. He must have made some sound because Doyle was replying, even if he couldn't hear the words.

"I thought you were gay Bodie, not deaf" Doyle repeated, more desperate than sneering. Bodie got up slowly, and even slowlier moved towards Doyle, who moved away warily, but found himself trapped in the corner created by the kitchen counters.

Bodie stopped in front of him, just a tiny bit too close for comfort, and stared at Doyle with puzzled eyes. "You're not having me on?"

Doyle moved his head imperceptibly, and looked down at his feet. Bodie followed the line of his gaze. "I can't believe it" he said slowly, and it was almost a guffaw.

At that, Doyle grabbed him and shook him, hard: "What's to laugh, eh? What's to laugh, damn you! It's all your fault!"

Bodie sighed and stopped Doyle's movements with a minimum of fuss: "I'm not laughing at you. It's just… well, I'd never thought… Ah, who cares what I thought—it's you who's doing too much thinking!"

"Can you tell me something new?" Doyle jeered feebly; he was looking more frazzled by the second.

Bodie let Doyle go but didn't back off, still standing into Doyle's space. "All right. Why do you have to leave?"

"What?! Did you hear what I said, Bodie?"

Bodie shrugged. "Yea. You keep thinking about it. It's because it's new; you'll get used to it. Why should you need to leave?"

Doyle threw his arms up, exasperated: "I said, I can't stop thinking about it!"

Bodie's face was calmly guileless, placid even. "Even more reason not to leave—it wouldn't change anything."

Doyle grabbed Bodie's arms and shook him: "I can't function if I'm obsessed!"

"Obsessed. Obsessed with sex? So, what's new?"

Doyle shook him harder: "Obsessed with you, you idiot!"

Still making no move to free himself, Bodie looked at Doyle very seriously, and said slowly: "You're really leaving. You're leaving because you're obsessed with me."

"Yea."

Bodie kept looking at Doyle: face, eyes, hair; then lower to the chest and shoulders; finally to the straining, erect member.

"It's simple, then. Very simple," sighed Bodie, and pushed forward, shrugging off Doyle's grasp and closing the short distance between them, until they were almost touching. "Get it over with. Give it a try, it won't kill you."

Doyle's mouth turned downwards bitterly, eyes overbright. "I don't think—"

Bodie said, the soul of matter-of-factness: "Good! That's the way, Doyle. Don't think too much. You got the itch, I'll help you scratch it, like a good mate."

"A good mate" asked Doyle hollowly, as Bodie took him gently by the arm with the left hand, and started tugging Doyle's shirt out of his jeans.

"Yes, a helping hand, no hassle, yea?" Bodie's voice was low, sweet almost; Doyle felt it like a delicate caress on strung nerves. Bodie was offering help; Bodie …

"But—"

Bodie smiled kindly: "No buts, Doyle. Come to bed; we'll have a good time, you'll get this out of your system, so you won't have to leave…"

"But tomorrow—" Doyle tried again, just as he was letting himself be pulled gently towards the stairs to the bedroom.

Bodie knew he was gambling—but he also knew he couldn't let Doyle go without doing anything. "Tomorrow I'm going to Derby, so you can take your time, decide whether you liked it, what you want—it would be stupid to leave because you want to give it a try. I'm good, you know? It won't be difficult, and it won't be all bad. And when I'm back, it will all be all right, we'll always be friends, as always—" Bodie had never used so many words to talk about fucking: such a gamble indeed.

"Friends?" asked Doyle feebly, as they walked into the bedroom, and Bodie started getting undressed.

"Yes, friends. Mates. We're the best team, together— can't break it over this. You're my mate, that's what counts."

"You said you didn't fancy me, Bodie." Objected Doyle again, as Bodie efficiently divested him of his clothes.

Bodie shrugged. "One thing is fancy, one thing is fuck; and I know you must be a good fuck, once you stop yakking" Bodie pushed Doyle onto the bed, and followed him. The curtains were drawn, making the room dim—it would help the gamble, Bodie thought: no matter what, he wasn't gonna let his well turned out team go to pieces over Doyle feeling like a walk on the wild side: and fancy was irrelevant in the face of this. If all else failed, he would close his eyes and think of someone else; but he suspected he wouldn't need it.

* * *

Doyle was sleeping soundly, despite the morning sun creeping steadily towards his face. It had already reached his outflung forearm, gilding his hairs red-gold. Bodie stared at the brilliance until he could not help blinking. He knew his gamble was won, now. He'd get up and leave for Derby, and Doyle would be there when he returned, assignment tidily over, tidy life in CI5's ace team ready to resume. Most likely, Doyle would be over his whim and back to girls; or maybe he'd be fucking Murphy, once that worthy got over his paranoias. Maybe Doyle would even be willing to keep fucking with him, Bodie. Not the optimal solution, that, as it messed with the team's balance, despite what he'd told Doyle: but it had the advantage of being logistically convenient. By the time he was back, Bodie would get over the strange sense of detachment he was feeling now—as if he wasn't really inside his body. There had been moments, last night, when he'd felt like he was choreographing the sex like a ballet; watching Doyle's moves and cries and helplessly debauched movements, and had calmly counterpointed them. He'd known Doyle was hot and sexy and more than willing—but it was a knowledge that went no further than his brain, and his cock of course.

Ah, well—he was being overphilosophical, he must be shagged out. Had happened before, despite his boasting. A nice cooling spell in Derby, alone, was just the thing—no sex, no people, no hassle—concentrate on work. He'd feel like playing again, sooner rather than later—and then, who knows what or who would catch his fancy again? Fancy was a strange thing: look how it had sparked to life in Doyle, unbidden and unrequited—and rather catholic in his scope too, as towards dawn Doyle had asked a lot of questions about Murphy, and how good he was, and what he liked, and how. Doyle's curiosity was indeed a Catholic thing, being about Murphy… Bodie knew he should be snickering at his own wit: but, sudden as it had appeared, the sun went out again, and the red-gold brilliance gilding Doyle's lean arm disappeared, leaving only the brown-haired arm of a man snoring in a small, stuffy room. Bodie wanted to claw open a window and breathe deeply the bracing pre-dawn air, as the place was suddenly unbearably airless, the whole room closing in on him. He gritted his teeth and slowly got out of bed, careful not to wake Doyle.

Bodie got dressed and ready to go as fast and quietly as he could, never once unclenching his teeth for fear of starting to scream and being unable to stop. At the bedroom door, Bodie turned once again to look at Doyle, who snored with his mouth half-open, hair wild and limbs sprawled; Bodie didn't know for sure what he felt, but he thought it might be nothing in particular. Well, no, not exactly: he knew he'd won his gamble to make Doyle stay in CI5; and he knew that the day was forecast to be grey and rainy, which meant he wouldn't see Doyle's arm catching the sunlight like a bright flame again. He knew he'd be in Derby for a while, and that he would be all right; things would be all right, too, just as they always ended up being if he could help it.

He turned, and quietly, gently, let himself out.

**Author's Note:**

> This work was written in 2004, and it's a remix of the story ' The Gay Deceivers' by Vera [available on the Hatstand archive http://hatstand.slashcity.net]. The premise of the original story is that Doyle catches Bodie having sex with Murphy. I took the initial setup and ran with it.


End file.
